After almost 20 years of not being able to read longer than a few minutes, after muddling my way through 8 years of university to finish a BA, after wanting more than anything to be a writer and feeling nothing more than failure, it’s weird to sit and read a book without interruption.
I brought two with me for this weekend at my parents’s. I’m already done both (save a few pages. I only put it down to write this post). It’s weird. It feels weird to read so easily again. I know it must’ve been this easy when I was a kid. I was the stereotype of a bookworm. I remember what I read, my favourite books. But I don’t remember how it felt.
When I started thinking about how I wanted to spend my 2019, I had two big ideas: no reading, only writing or no writing, only reading. Two extremes, a challenge to do something radical and see how it might change my life.
I didn’t choose either. I may wish for adventure, but I need routine. Or perhaps not. Perhaps my brain made the choice for me.